The Island's Swansong

VIII - Legends of the Hills

I stared, mouth gawping with an infantile grin as the two engines began bickering like old men.

"Probably some lost chump."

"No! I told you someone would buy us eventually!"

"We're worth more in scrap than working order by now! Poor fellow probably has no idea who we are."

"Stuart, Falcon," I greeted the two engines.

Their (relatively) little faces froze in shock. "He knows!" Peter Sam ushered a little louder than he thought. Neither engine could mask the beams creeping across their faces. But that wasn't what caught my eye. There was something here that I thought I'd never see. Sir Handel, of all engines, had the most innocent glimmer of pure happiness in his eyes. That of a soul convinced they were forgotten, realising they were remembered.

"I've not gone by Falcon for a long time," he said, voice soft.

"Not for a hundred years or so," Peter Sam agreed.

Their paintwork, cloaked in darkness until I opened the doors, was in remarkable condition. It was dusty, covered in soot and ash in places, but nowhere near as rusty or flaky as what I'd seen previously. Crovan's Gate was the maintenance epicentre on Sodor, with even the buildings proving sturdy, secure and long-lived. But the little engines' colours leapt out. They were both red, with yellow and blue lining. "Is something the matter?" Peter Sam raised an eyebrow.

Both engines were staring at me. "No," I shook my head, "I'm just used to seeing you in dark blue and green."

"We've not worn those colours since we had the names you pulled out!" Sir Handel replied, "You look a hundred years too young to have been around in those days."

"Oh I certainly wasn't," I stepped into the shed, "I saw you on the television, where you kept those colours."

"Ohhhh," Peter Sam realised, "We don't know why they did that. Something about it being too hard to tell all us engines apart on TV?"

"Yes, I believe so," I peered deeper into the shed, but it was empty. "What happened to the other narrow-gauge engines?"

"History repeated itself," Peter Sam explained, "Hard times came, but this time for the whole island. The lines closed, starting with branch lines, then the main line. All us engines were put up for sale. Skarloey and Rheneas, the poster boys, were snapped up first, along with Granpuff. A private collector wanted them for his own personal railway."

"On a far away island," Sir Handel added, "On the other side of the world."

"I can't recall the name," Peter Sam continued, "Rusty was taken back to the Tallyln, who bought Mighty Mac as well."

"What about Duncan and Freddie?" I asked, the only two engines not accounted for.

Both engines looked at each other, concerningly. "We don't talk about Freddie..." Peter Sam answered, bluntly.

"Alright."

My mind wandered. What was so bad the name made their axles shudder? But I respected their answer. "Duncan?"

"You know Duncan," Peter Sam opened up again, "Always complaining and mumbling. No buyers wanted him. He was deemed too disagreeable. Mr Percival did stick up for him, though. The last thing he wanted was for any of us to be scrapped."

"Is that where Duncan ended up?"

"He was bought," Sir Handel said, "But for a pittance, by some shady person we knew nothing about. We don't know what happened to him."

"Right," I gulped. It seemed both engines feared the worst. "How come you two weren't sold?"

"We were the only pair due another overhaul," Peter Sam's face fell sullen, "Everyone else got theirs before the hard times hit. People didn't want to pay for engines that needed overhauling before use. It was too much of a risk. We were put in the sheds, and told one day we'd become someone's restoration project. But no one showed up..." Their faces sparked, clinging to some hope. "Until today!"